


The Gods of Culinary Chaos

by BennyBatch



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Asgardian Culture (Marvel), Asgardian Tony Stark, Culinary AU, Friends to Lovers, Loki & Tony Stark Friendship, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Odin (Marvel)'s Parenting, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Loki (Marvel), Parent Frigga (Marvel), Prince Loki (Marvel), Referenced Sexism, Thor (Marvel) is a Good Bro, Tony is a Pastry Chef, Vanaheimr | Vanaheim, not at first, royal kitchens, Álfheimr | Alfheim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24629188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BennyBatch/pseuds/BennyBatch
Summary: Odin decides it's time Loki finds another outlet for his chaotic energies and figures the royal kitchen is as good a place as any. Thankfully the pastry chef seems to agree.
Relationships: Loki/Tony Stark
Comments: 14
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is a fill for my TSbingo:  
> Card no. 3021 - square R3 - wealth as a disadvantage

Not a moment before, the royal hall boomed with the Allfather’s commanding voice. Now all he can hear over the whirling of his own mind is Thor’s constant shifting, the cloth of his red cape rasping against the knots of metal he insisted on wearing despite its blatant ostentatiousness. It makes him grind his teeth. And yet, for all its effort, his mind fails to yield results—he had no thoughts, no quick and justified objections—although he desperately wishes to object.

Refusing to gape any longer, he sputters, “F-Father, you can’t be ser—”

“My mind is made up, Loki,” Odin interrupts. “I believe this will be good for you. Your mother thinks much the same.”

Thor titters at his side, and Loki’s face flashes hot. 

“I am a  _ prince _ , not some kitchen maid—” Odin lifts a hand and Loki falls into obstinate silence.

“An overseer, Loki, not maid. You will have a great number of tasks set before you in this role, and I expect you to execute them with the same level of tenaciousness I expect from both of my sons. Now,” he says, his single visible eye narrowing. “Have I made myself clear?”

Loki works his jaw, not meeting his father’s piercing gaze as he bites out, “Yes, Father.”

Odin nods, satisfied with Loki’s answer, and knocks Gungnir against the floor, the deed done with these parting words— “Then you are dismissed.”

Loki turns on his heel and storms off before the last of the staff’s resounding echoes fade from the room, and the guards appear overly eager to open the doors for their prince’s hasty exit. 

Maids and courtesans litter his path, though they all dive into alcoves to avoid the storm written on his face. 

Their whispers further set him on edge. 

His eyes flash as he glowers in their direction, feeling a surge in his chest as they fall silent.

“How fitting it will be,” Thor jeers, breaking the silence as he pulls up next to his side, “to have a kitchen maid for a brother.” When Loki quickened his pace, Thor easily matched his gait. Loki growls and shoves his brother away, but Thor only laughs at his efforts, continuing his mocking. “I’m sure you’ll look dashing with food clinging to your hair, brother!”—Thor tugs one of his locks, jerking his head back.

Loki whirls on him, smacking the hand from his hair as he wrangles the wrathful tears threatening to spill from his eyes, and, seeing that he pushed too far, Thor’s expression softens. His brows knit together, blue eyes full of concern, making Loki burn twofold with shame.

“Loki, I—”

“Save your breath,” he spits, and when he turns to continue toward his chambers, Thor does not follow. A small blessing. His mind remains blank as he walks on, though his fingers twitch at his sides.

His chamber doors, recognizing his magical signature, open as he approaches and slam shut behind him, shimmering green as his safeguards fall back into place, and only then does he scream. He seizes the first object within reach, a crystalline vase his mother had brought back from Alfheim, and hurls it at the opposite wall. It shatters with a satisfying crash; needle-like shards ricochet off the wall. They embed themselves in the rug, pillows, bookshelf, and, flinching, his cheek. He lifts a hand to pull it out, staring at the blood coloring its tip.

A simple spell mends his cheek, and another clears the shards away, though he keeps hold of the one between his fingers, setting it atop his nightstand as he sinks onto his mattress. He lies down and pulls the sheets up to his chin to stare at the wall.

The rest of the day passes slowly as the sun tracks its path down his walls.

He refuses the meals brought to his door, his stomach turning at the mere thought of joining the hands behind its preparation.

Why—why did Odin force such a role on him? And his mother—his fists curl in his sheets, the sting of betrayal sharp—she went along with it.

What does he know of cooking, anyway?

He can grind ingredients into powders for his spells, or brew potions that will have even the most resilient of Asgard’s brutes asphyxiating on his own tongue, but preparing a bread roll? He knows next to nothing. Less than nothing, considering that the last time he set foot in the kitchens was when he and Thor were but children stealing into the pantry to make away with some pastry or other. He remembers how the cooks had averted their eyes. And, had he deigned to pay more attention, he might have been able to observe them grinning amongst themselves conspiratorially, claiming ignorance or blaming the growing confidence of birds when the after-dinner dessert platter seemed more sparse than normal.

Perhaps, he thinks, returning to the present, Odin simply wants him out of the way to prepare for Thor’s coronation, and sequestering him in the royal kitchens is simply a convenient means of doing so.

He could almost claim he anticipated this.

Not the kitchens, per se—he had at least hoped to be sent away to study under tutors on Alfheim—but it was inevitable, really, just a matter of time before he was cast into the shadows. After all, what use is a second prince in a situation like this except to stand idly by, smiling as he is relegated to the role of advisor? 

Thor will hear his advice, he knows that much; but he also knows full well that hearing and listening are two separate matters. Thor will hear, but not listen, and that is to be his role.

He deserves more than that,  _ is _ more than that.

He doesn’t know why no one else thinks the same.

***

The first steward to knock on his door the next morning shrieks and scrambles back down the hall when the knocker shifts into a writhing snake as soon as his fingers wrapped around it. He succeeds twice more before his door finally pushes open, dauntless in the face of his tricks. Sighing up at the ceiling, he rolls onto his side to face his mother. She looks stern, the barest hint of disappointment crinkling the outside corners of her eyes as the door closes behind her, ruffling her cornflower blue dress.

“Loki,” she begins, and he knows that tone at once. 

He scoffs, tossing back onto his other side and pulling the sheets nearly up and over his head. The bed dips behind his back, but he doesn’t move.

“You were to be in the kitchens nearly two hours ago,” she murmurs, and he flinches when fingers slip under the duvet and stroke through his hair. They pause but do not pull away. “Your father and I,” she tries again, “we feel this will be good for you, and perhaps it will give you something to do other than terrorize our staff.” She gently tugs on one of his curls, grinning when he grumbles and bats her hand away. 

“All I ask is one week, Loki. After that, if you still detest the idea so much, I will speak with your father to arrange another outlet.”

As she speaks, he turns just enough to meet her gaze. 

“You swear it?” he asks, though his short tone conveys the underlying demand for a binding oath.

Frigga’s eyes soften and magic ripples over his skin, solidifying her words as she agrees, “I swear it.”

He stares at her, silent as her magic settles deep within his skin. Finally, he sighs and sits up.

Grinning, Frigga darts forward to peck his forehead with a kiss before he can think to swat her away and she stands in a flourish, dress flowing behind her. 

“I will send a steward to fetch you within the hour, my love. I expect you to be ready when he arrives,” she levels him with a significant look known only by mothers before he nods with a roll of his eyes. “And, for being late,” she continues, smirking, and the gleeful wickedness he sees in it makes his heart stutter. “You must find breakfast in the kitchens yourself.”—“ _ Mother _ !”—“Perhaps,” she speaks over him, “one of the cooks will whip something up for you, if you ask nicely enough.”

Grumbling to himself, Loki throws his sheets aside and rolls out of bed, padding into the adjacent bath, which, with an amused wave of his mother’s hand, is already full of hot, perfumed water. 

He sheds his clothes as he walks. They fall away, piece by piece, landing in haphazard heaps on the floor to be picked up by someone other than him later that day. Then, stepping into the water, he sinks down. He allows himself to slip deeper into the water’s depths, sighing blissfully as warmth envelops him, and only when the water settles just under his nose does he still. By that time, his mother was long gone.

Closing his eyes, he slips deeper.

Water flows up and over his head, saturating his dark curls, and he remains there, allowing the water to burn over his cheeks until he has to come up for breath. Then he curls up, arms wrapped around his knees.

He doesn’t want to go.

His mother’s kind, yet commanding words did very little to prevent the resentment still brewing in his heart, but he knows he must go, lest he face his father’s ire.

With clenched fists, he finishes washing.

He finds his clothes carefully set atop his freshly made bed and quickly changes before entering the hall to march toward the royal kitchens. The servants in the corridor offer to guide him, but he refuses with a sneer. He knows the way well enough.

As he steps out into the central courtyard, he lifts a hand to shield his eyes.

Under sparse clouds and the late morning sun, the sounds of daily fare are already underway. To his left, he spies the weathered blacksmith, Halvar, stooped over his anvil. An apprentice hovers over his shoulder as his hammer clangs and sparks against hot metal. A wooden barrel full of rudimentary swords sits at their side, patiently waiting for their turn to be heat-treated, and above their heads, daggers in various stages of progress litter the ceiling. 

A green hilt catches his eye.

Eyes roving over it, greedy, he soaks in the masterfully-done, leather-wrapped hilt, then his eyes trail over the serpent etched onto the blade’s face and along the gilded razors edge. Enchanted, no doubt—beautiful and deadly.

Gaze panning down, he catches the apprentice’s eye. 

They both know what he wants, and they both know Loki won’t walk away without securing it first, regardless of whether it’s claimed or not. 

Loki smirks, and the apprentice scrambles to pull the dagger down. 

He appreciates the hustle. Denying a prince, even a second prince, is not in any businesses’ best interest, and he is more than willing to burn this establishment to the ground had they tried.

When he comes to a stop in front of their stall, the apprentice bows hastily. “Prince Loki,” he sputters, and now that he is close enough, Loki can see traces of youth in his round, sparsely stubbled cheeks and too red face. “Your Hi-Highness, I saw—I saw you gazing at this specimen—” he holds up the dagger, now sheathed in an ornate scabbard—“I brought it down for—”

“How much?”

“Sorry?”

Loki narrows his eyes. “How much?” he enunciates. 

Startled at his tone, the apprentice stammers, unsure, and flicks his gaze to Halvar, who stands at the commotion. When Halvar turns to offer him a tipped head and a bow, he has to refrain from wrinkling his nose at the dark stains marring the man’s apron, hands, and wizened face.

“I am afraid, Prince Loki,” Halvar rumbles, voice gruff, “that dagger is not ours to sell.”

Loki’s smirk falls. 

“Pardon?”

“A fellow smith asked if I would apply the final heat treatment—"

“I care little for your explanations,” he interjects, voice wavering close to a hiss.

Halvar spreads his hands out, placating, although Loki can tell the man isn’t intimidated by his tone. 

“I know they are looking to sell, but I do not know the asking price. If you return tomorrow, I will have that information for you.”

“You could hand it over to me now. You know I have coin enough to pay whatever price the artisan charges for it,” he offers, but Halvar is already shaking his head before he finishes his sentence.

“It has not seen its final heat treatment, and I will not allow it to leave the premises without the owner’s explicit permission.”

The blatant rejection has Loki working his jaw and biting back venom.

“You refuse me, then?” he manages to ask.

“Aye.”

“You’re sure about that.”

“Aye,” he says again.

Silence stretches between them where they stare each other down. The apprentice, for his part, swallows, his eyes wide as his gaze flicks between them, waiting for some sort of catharsis when Loki eventually sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Have it your way, Halvar,” he relents. “But the blade best be wrapped up in your finest leathers by this time tomorrow. I will not take kindly to being refused a second time.” 

With that said, Loki turns on his heel, silently fuming.

As he exits the plaza, he notices a cluster of women gathered at the mouth of an arched pathway. They speak in hushed tones and gesture with their free hands while the other clasps at either wicker baskets full of dirty linens or fresh eggs and milk bottles. 

From what he can hear, their topics range from detergents and perfumes to children and boorish husbands. Superfluous. Women hardly have anything of real worth on their minds, he thinks, let alone in their conversations. They do pause in their gossip when one of their flock notices him, and they all bow as he passes by, though he takes no pride in it. Not like Thor would, anyway. It’s expected; no more, no less. To take pride in it would do nothing more than to admit that he took notice of and cared about their show of  _ respect _ , if he could truly call it that. Regardless, he ignores them in favor of pressing on, and it isn’t long before the scent of freshly baked bread titillates his senses, indicating that the royal kitchens likely lurk somewhere nearby.

The scent leads him through archways and down narrow side alleys until he finds himself in another plaza. 

This one is smaller than the last—about the size of his rooms, if he were to guesstimate, washroom and study included—although it appears bigger due to how the stone patio opens up to a grassy area, the edges of which are accented with flowering shrubs, greenery, and a lattice banister made of stone. 

He approaches it, his parents’ mandated task momentarily forgotten, and he splays his hands over its rough surface to peer over the precarious edge. Asgard sprawls out before him.

Being so high up, Loki can see for miles.

His gaze slips down the palace’s steep sides to the edge of its gleaming walls where, just past them, more impressive structures jut into the sky, pointed and piercing, as if they’re trying to claim some of it for themselves. It makes sense, he thinks, that many of those structures are home to Asgard’s nobility and a select few with significant accrued wealth, be they merchants, traders, or well-to-do ranchers who no longer need to live on their homesteads; and it seems apt that Asgard’s leading university sits nestled amongst them. The grounds are immaculate, perfectly manicured and looked after by a dedicated staff. If he squints, he can just make out a spattering of students walking between buildings and a handful of gardeners tending to the flowering plants circling the campus’ large central fountain.

He’s passed through there often enough on his way to the library to know just how delicate those blooms smell, and how useful the petals are for particular spells. He may just have to stop through there after dealing with these cooks. 

That said, however, his gaze continues to wander down the hill from the university’s gated entrance to where those who earn “a more modest living,” as his mother would say. In truth, that section of the capital is better known to the princes of Asgard for three things: scantily clad women, tankards overflowing with mead, and bar fights. 

It truly is no surprise, then, that Thor and the Warriors Three consistently demanded to delay their return home after a hunting trip in favor of guzzling a few pints.

When Sif would join, the two of them often ended up sitting in the same booth back against the side of the tavern. Neither of them spoke to one another, but neither did they seek out better company. Loki knew, though, that it was only because Sif had her eye on a blonder, higher-bred prize rather than the crumpled drunkards populating the pub. Loki, on the other hand, sat to the side because dealing with a single night at the pub was easier than listening to Thor pester him about it the following day.

He snorts at the memory, wry and amused, although he is loath to admit it.

Still, seeing the kingdom laid out so plainly, he can’t help but to think about how foolish he was for believing he may have one day ruled over it all.

A child’s dream.

Or perhaps it is better termed as the secondborn’s delusion. 

Huffing, he flicks a loose stone off the banister’s surface. He wants to stand by and watch it fall, but he’s already wasted enough time.

He pushes away from the banister and steps back into the courtyard, appraising the facade of every building as he sniffs the air. Following the scent of fresh bread, he soon discovers a nondescript wooden door hinged flush against the back of what he now recognizes as the Great Hall, the structure mainly used for hosting feasts for Asgard’s nobility or visiting diplomats. 

During one such feast, he recalls with some awe that the cooks had managed to squeeze an entire ship, mast, sail, and all, laden with decadent desserts, succulent meats, green vegetables, and exotic fruits harvested from the Nine within its walls. How exactly they accomplished such a feat, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that the diplomats and nobles were thoroughly impressed by the Allfather’s display of wealth and influence over the realms.

Forever the display, he thinks, his forehead now resting against the door, his fingers splayed over its sleek grain. Then, sighing, he pushes against it.

The door swings open to reveal a dark staircase leading down into the sequestered kitchens and Loki descends into its warm depths, the door swinging shut behind him, cutting off his sight.

After a brief moment in darkness, he is surprised when the stairwell gets brighter – as if the sunlight from the world above had somehow penetrated through the earth and stone to illuminate what should have been a dark, dank, dismal space, even if it had been lined with torches. Magic like that, if it was magic, would require a mage with immense skill to put into place. Even more so to keep the spell maintained, although he doubts any of the cooks would be capable of such a thing.

As he makes his way down, his footfall echoes off the stone steps. His long fingers catch against the grout joints as they slide against the stone walls encasing him, and soon enough he comes across a flat, half landing where the stairs take a sharp left turn and continue their descent. 

He lingers when he reaches it, ears perked as he eyes the remaining steps. Then, falling into a crouch, he presses back into what little shadow is available to him as the low murmur of voices and the shuffling of busy feet reaches his ears.

They’re close – just at the bottom of the stairs – but then they move off, and Loki quietly follows.

A muttered spell muffles his steps as he creeps down to meld into the shadows of what looks to be a small storage area. 

To his right, the wall is lined with large cask barrels of what could only be ale, if the pungent aroma is anything to go by, as well as a long table covered with wicker baskets full to the brim with a healthy variety of dried meats, cheese, fruits, and vegetables. Freshly harvested, too, judging by the clods of dirt still clinging to their skin.

He continues to scan the room until his gaze settles on the opposite wall where he finds three arched cutouts, the bases of which being large enough for the cooks to pass baskets, spices, and large, steaming platters through to the waiting arms of the serving staff and cupbearers. For now, though, they simply provide him with a means of sneaking a peek into the room beyond.

So, tiptoeing closer, he peers through the first of the three windows, being sure to remain hidden behind the basket of leafy blues set there for the time being.

The first cook he sees is a woman with flaming auburn hair cropped near her shoulders. She stands near a doorway leading to another room, smoothing her hands over her apron as she listens to a man with short, sandy-blond hair ramble about something or other, gesticulating pointedly as she smirks and lifts a brow, which only causes him to gesticulate more wildly.

Loki can already tell that he will find a kindred spirit with her, although he pushes the stray thought away with not but a frown as he continues his appraisal.

A kind looking, dark-haired man sits off to the side peeling various root vegetables, a large pile of ribbon-like, multi-colored skins littering the floor by his feet as he plops the newly peeled vegetables into a vat of water sat by his side. The man looks up as another blond, blue-eyed man passes behind him.

“Steve,” he says, and the blond stops to smile at him. It is a strange name, Loki thinks. Not at all common in the capital. He could be from outside the shining city; one of the villages, perhaps?

“This is the last basket I have,” the man continues, cutting into Loki’s thoughts as he nudges a basket that Loki hadn’t noticed before with his foot.

“Hmm,” Steve hums, a finger tapping on his chin. “Tony”—another strange name—“shouldn’t be too far out now. Do you think we’ll have enough?”

“Yeah, one more full basket should be plenty enough for the royal family, plus a bit extra to share down here.”

Loki hears a groan from the other side of the room followed by the soft laugh of that red-haired woman. 

“Thank the Norns,” someone says. “I’ve been chomping at the bit for a taste of your soup.”

The dark-haired man next to Steve laughs. “Well, I’m considering making it more of a stew—”

“Soup, stew, whatever,” the other interjects. “Just ladle me up a large, heaping, steaming bowl with a hunk of bread and I’ll—oh, my mouth is watering just thinking about it.”

Loki is so engrossed in the ensuing conversation that he doesn’t hear the steps of someone pulling up behind him until a voice calls out—loud enough for the next room to hear and look up—“Prince Loki.”

He definitely doesn’t startle or gasp as he whirls to face the man who’d followed him down the stairs. 

Standing straighter, he can feel the eyes of the other cooks boring into his back, but for now he inclines his head to the man before him, eyeing the basket of vegetables resting against his hip and ignoring the smirk playing at the man’s lips.

When he lifts his head, the man continues.

“We’ve been expecting you,” he says. “Welcome to the royal kitchens.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark Bingo  
> Title: The Gods of Culinary Chaos  
> Card no.: 4005  
> Square filled: K5 - anger issues  
> Ship: frostiron  
> Rating: T  
> Major tags: culinary au, loki is an asshole, tony is a pastry chef  
> Summary: Odin decides it's time Loki finds another outlet for his chaotic energies and figures the royal kitchen is as good a place as any. Thankfully the pastry chef seems to agree.  
> WC for chapter: 3442
> 
> Loki bingo  
> Square filled: I1 - bakery au

“We’ve been expecting you,” the man says, his earlier smirk now flattening into something akin to a frown as he stares him down, and now that his head is lifted, Loki can see that his eyes are a rich, flashing brown, striking against his tan complexion.

“Welcome to the royal kitchens.”

And perhaps it is because he, and subsequently the rest of the cooks, had known of his impending arrival that Loki’s fingers decide that now is an appropriate time to fiddle with his coattails, belying the nervousness his face doesn’t show. The fact that his presence appears to be an unwanted intrusion also doesn’t go unnoticed.

Loki opens his mouth to craft a retort, but then, unexpectedly, the man sweeps by him to set his basket on the wide base of the arched windows just behind him.

“Here’re your veggies, Brucie.”

Brucie, the dark-haired man Loki had been watching before, stands when called and eyes him with apprehension before offering the stranger beside him a small smile.

“Thank you, Tony. This should be just enough.”

“Glad to hear it,” Tony says, flashing Brucie a smile, although it drops when Tony turns to face him again, his voice no longer so warm.

“First rule, Your Highness,” he begins, hip cocked and arms crossed over his chest, and Loki clenches his jaw, his eyes narrowing in warning at the cook’s tone and indignant stance. “Don’t be late. Two”—Tony again cuts off Loki’s attempt to speak at the quick, eyeing him critically—“dress appropriately for the kitchens. Steve doesn’t want to deal with irate messages from seamstresses and launders complaining about the tough stains in our prince’s oh-so-delicate attire. Here,” he says suddenly, whirling around to grab something just on the other side of the kitchen’s entryway.

Loki’s arms come up reflexively to catch what Tony lobs at him. 

Holding it aloft, it unfurls, and a plain white apron stares back at him. There are stubborn stains around the collar, and a few more where it would settle across his lap, and he knows that if it had the ability to emote, Loki is sure the garment would be leveling him with a look of equal distaste as the one he scrutinizes it with now.

His disgusted gaze unwavering, he hisses, “I will not wear this,” and Tony snorts.

“Unless you want to ruin those threads,” Tony replies, coming close to pluck at Loki’s sleeve, which causes the prince to jerk his arm back as if burned, “you’ll wear it.”

“Do not touch me, peasant!” he spits, words like venom, but Tony’s eyes glisten with fire, his expression taut yet amused.

“Already moving on to name-calling, huh? Well, look here—”

“Tony,” Steve calls out, voice low and firm. A warning.

Tony’s mouth audibly snaps shut and he works his jaw. Then, leveling Loki with another withering look, he turns on his heel to retreat into the depths of the kitchen. Where exactly, Loki doesn’t know, nor does he care. He doesn’t watch Tony leave. As a prince, he is above that; although he isn’t above glaring holes into the apron still held in his grasp. Yet, he can’t seem to let it go. Despite his brusque tone and abrasive personality, he knows that loud-mouthed cook has a point, and if he has to suffer through this, he will at least save his clothes. 

Biting back an irritated grumble, he slips the apron on over his head, and as he pushes his hair back into place, he notices Steve’s eyes cut toward Brucie. The meek chef nods once before he stands and follows after Tony, then Steve glances his way. By that time, the other chefs that had gathered around to observe Tony’s outburst had dispersed, leaving the two of them alone.

“Prince Loki,” he says, approaching Loki with a respectful bow and a traditional Asgardian greeting. Loki grips his forearm and shakes it once. Steve clears his throat as his arm drops back down to his side. “My name is Steve Rogerson. I am the pantler overseeing the daily affairs of this kitchen, including the royal food store, wine cellar, daily menus, and, of course, the chefs. You already met Tony—” 

“The rude one.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, rubbing the back of his next. “On behalf of the kitchen, I want to apologize for—”

Loki again cuts him off with a flippant wave of his hand. “He will not be here tomorrow.”

“I...what?”

“Now, are you going to give me a tour or are you just going to stand there gawking?”

Steve immediately shuts his gaping mouth. “Of course, Your Highness. Please, this way,” he says, gesturing for Loki to follow him into the kitchen. Loki does so, casting his gaze around the room.

Where there aren't mounds of food, spices, and simmering pots, the kitchen is immaculate. Even the mounds are organized in their own way. Although at first glance they appear a mess with various of the same foodstuffs appearing in multiple stacks rather than consolidated into one, Loki realizes that, in fact, everything is stacked quite nicely and gathered together in their own specific space within the kitchen. Near Brucie, he spies the pile of root vegetables he’d been peeling earlier as well as pristinely cut cubes of meat and other julienned vegetables. Above his head, leafy spices are hung to dry.

“You have already seen the front storage room on your way in,” Steve continues, drawing Loki’s sharp gaze back to him. “It is typically used as a transfer point. The casks of ale, for instance, are set to be transported later today for a gathering held this evening, hosted by Prince Thor.”

Loki’s eyes narrow when he hears this, yet he says nothing.

They come to a stop at the far left wall, a good distance from the entryway. Lining it is a long span of smooth wood countertop coupled with three woodfire inlets carefully encased by insulating stone. Their mouths are covered by thick metal for the most part, although the middle one is ajar. Through the crack, Loki can see the warm glow of the fire burning within; can feel it, too. He wrinkles his nose and takes a step back.

“This,” Steve says, “is Tony’s workspace.”

“All of it?”

Steve nods. “As our pastry chef, he needs a bit more room than the rest of us. Save for Natasha, perhaps. But his work requires space, a careful hand, and perfect timing. That there—” Steve points toward a door Loki hadn’t seen, hidden around the corner where the counter ends—“is his cold storage.”

Loki hums, still caught on what Steve had said just before. A careful hand. Perfect timing. 

He could laugh. 

From what he’s already seen, that man—Tony—was far too rough in both personality and stature to handle a task more suited for a woman.

A sly grin curls his lips; a decision made.

For his earlier slight, Tony would be the one to fall folly to the brunt of his tempestuous nature. 

Perhaps he would breathe down the man’s neck. Stand just behind, nose upturned as he critiqued every pastry that passed through the other’s ovens and onto a cooling plate. And, perhaps, a few plates would find themselves clattering to the ground. It would be no fault of Loki’s, of course. He wouldn’t be anywhere near it; how could he have done it?

Loki has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from cackling and giving himself away too soon. 

The gaze Steve levied his way, however, was somewhat knowing. But, rather than mention it, Steve merely suggests they continue the tour. Loki inclines his head, easily acquiescing. 

Steve leads him around the far end of the kitchen. They pass by a half-open door on their left. The bottom is held fast by a simple lock, the top open to reveal a portion of the lush garden that lies just on the other side and to allow in a breeze that tousles his hair as he trails lazy eyes over whatever aspect of the kitchen Steve deemed significant enough to explain to him. Which appears to be all of it, though he isn’t exactly listening.

He does blink out of his reverie when he catches the tail end of ‘...uce Bannerson’ to stare at the top of a bowed head that murmurs, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” he drawls.

The man lifts his head after Loki replies, cheeks ruddy. Though whether it is from the work he’s done, the heat of the low fire and simmering pot beside him, or the nerves from having to rush from the back room where the pastry chef yet scowls to greet his prince, Loki doesn’t know. Regardless, Bruce is quick to look away and even quicker to return to his duties. Loki merely quirks a manicured brow and Steve offers an apologetic smile as they move on.

Just as Loki is about to raise his hand to cover a yawn, they stop again. This time, however, two new faces, a man and a woman—both elven, he notices—take a moment to appraise him before they, too, bow deeply before him. They straighten in unison.

“This is Clint Barton,” Steve introduces, and the man offers him an easy smile.

“Your Highness,” he says.

Loki inclines his head, appraising Barton’s subtle, yet strong jaw and pointed ears that taper and disappear into his honey-hued hair.

“Clint is our brewer, bottler, and butler,” Steve continues. “He also specializes in breakfast preparation and works closely with Tony to ensure that the sweetness of the morning selection of pastries is balanced out by more savoury dishes.”

Barton shrugs, full of humility. “Tony makes it easy.”

“Does he really?”  _ Doubtful _ , Loki thinks.

“Sure,” Barton says. “The guy knows what he’s doing, that’s for sure. It’s easy to fall in line with him no matter what menu we’re preparing.” Here, Barton laughs. “Don’t misunderstand me, Your Highness. Tony is a demanding taskmaster, but he has good reason for it.”

“I’m sure,” Loki replies, though his eyes soon flick to the woman when she clears her throat. It is her hair, bright as any flame found in the kitchen, that strikes him first. Next, her eyes. An icy blue that acts as a balm to the flames. Finally, her plush lips, which are curled in an amused smirk as she cocks her hips against the nearby counter and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Ah, yes,” Steve quickly interjects. “Prince Loki, this is Natasha Romanoff, our butcher and meat specialist.” 

At her introduction, she grips a single plait of her long skirt and dips in a short curtsey. Loki, for his part, grimaces. “You hired a woman for such a task?” 

Steve looks at once both shocked and affronted, but before a defense of behalf of his cook can cross his lips, Loki catches the deadly glint of a large knife. He has little time to prepare himself. Thankfully, the pale, almost deceptively delicate hand that wields it isn’t aiming for him. Instead, it embeds the knife in the meat-block countertop with a resounding, dull thud; and, though her fingers never stray from the blade’s dark handle, Loki knows the blade has penetrated deep enough into the wood to be able to stand without aid.

He swallows.

“I assure you, Your Highness,” Natasha begins, and Loki’s wide green eyes immediately dart up from the knife to settle on her grinning face. “I am more than capable of handling my position.”

Loki doesn’t even need to be heralded as the God of Lies to know she spoke the truth. Her widening grin tells him that she knows it, too; and she knows he knows. 

He bristles. 

His fingers clench at his sides as the silence between the four of them grows almost overbearing, oppressive, until it is suddenly broken by Barton.

“I assume you’ve yet to have breakfast, Prince Loki. Is that the case?” he asks.

Loki’s eyes flick over to the half-open door where the now midday sun spills onto the flagstone floor before nodding his head. Barton grins. 

“Allow me to get something started for you.”

Loki works his jaw, levelling sharp green eyes on the other man. 

“Fine,” he says, dismissive, though Barton takes it in stride. He breezes by him, gathering various ingredients from counters and shelves as he passes through the kitchen. As he does, the other cooks return to their tasks. 

Natasha inclines her head before turning to exit through a wide, arched doorway on the far wall. Loki doesn’t know what lies on the other side. Although, judging by the orange glow curling around the arch’s large stones, he assumes it must be where the majority of the meat that passes through this kitchen is cooked. He wonders if she slaughters there, too. 

That thought alone is enough to wrinkle his nose.  _ How unsanitary _ .

Steve clears his throat, drawing Loki’s gaze yet again.

“I’m afraid I must—”

“Return to your duties, cook. I need no sitter.”

Steve’s mouth snaps shut, and Loki allows himself to feel the hot flash of pride at how effectively he swept the other man’s metaphorical feet.

“Yes, well…” Steve frowns and swallows. His eyes dart from Loki to the floor and back again before he huffs and nods. “As you say, Your Highness. I ask your leave.”

Loki waves his hand and turns the other way, walking toward the half-open door leading out into the gardens without a backwards glance. He flips the latch, opens the bottom half, and steps outside. The door closes quietly behind him. 

Warbling birds announce his arrival. 

A few spirit away, darting toward the treetops as his footfall echoes off the stone patio. A small woodland rodent tracks him with wide eyes before it, too, scurries away, climbing the vines twisting up the stone fence before leaping off the top to land on a branch of a tall tree lining the other side. The branch shudders with effort and some of the weaker leaves break free. They flutter to the ground where they will likely stay to become mulch, providing valuable nutrients to the bed of tomatoes that sits underneath. 

Loki’s gaze meanders over the other plant beds, taking note of the various plants growing there. 

Most are native to Asgard, though he recognizes a few from other realms. The line of large, leafy vegetables known for their bold, sharp flavor is from Alfheim. A smattering of berry bushes near the entryway are from Alfheim as well, and he bends to pick a few bright yellow berries for himself. He pops two into his mouth, which immediately waters as his taste buds pucker at the pleasantly sour taste, and steps farther into the garden to admire other flowering varieties of fruit from Vanaheim, fungi from Svartalfheim, and—

Loki draws up short. He stares down into a raised plot, freshly tended to and non-descript, save for the knee-high stalks erupting from the dark soil. He recognizes the plant immediately.

Corn.

Midgardian sweet corn, to be precise, not yet matured.

But, how?

How is it here when travel to the mortal realm was forbidden by Odin himself after the war with Jotunheim. Well, not  _ forbidden _ , per se. His ruling on the matter had felt as if travel to Midgard was frowned upon rather than explicitly forbidden. The mortals had to come into their own, after all. Regardless of the caveat, no one, from the loftiest of Asgard’s nobility to the lowest of beggars in Alfheim, has attempted to skirt past Heimdall’s ever-vigilant notice to visit that realm.

Loki has tried, of course. He’s even succeeded. Yet to come face to face with evidence that someone here—one of the cooks—has not only managed to do the same but has even fed the royal family the fruits of their efforts leave him both cold and thrilled to the highest degree.

“Are you fond of corn, Your Highness?”

A voice, sounding close to his ear, startles him. He whirls to find the pastry chef standing just behind him. His arms are clasped behind his back, bare where he’s pushed up his sleeves to reveal tanned skin. A well-used apron wraps around his surprisingly trim waist, and, when Loki lifts his gaze, he finds a knowing smirk playing at the other man’s lips.

Loki scowls. 

“This is your doing?” he asks, his scowl deepening as Tony’s smirk widens.

“And if it is?”

Loki’s reply is sharp, cracked like a barbed whip. “Where did you get it?” 

Tony laughs and shrugs a shoulder, unclasping his arms as he saunters past Loki to finger one of the stalk’s many long leaves. 

“Answer me,” Loki demands.

Tony pauses in his ministrations, though he doesn’t turn when he replies, “It seems to me that you already know the answer to that, Prince Loki.”

Loki stiffens. Of course he knows. He’s snuck down to that realm’s surface more than enough times to recognize one of its vegetable staples, native to what the mortals call North America. Yet, despite that fact, the chef’s lack of a concrete answer infuriates him. He wants verbal confirmation.

“It’s from Midgard, isn’t it?” he prompts, further stiffening when Tony turns his head to grin at him.

“It is,” he replies.

“How did you come across it? Traders?”

Tony laughs. “Any good chef worth their stuffing knows never to reveal their secrets.”

“Enough!” Loki growls. “I demand an answer.”

“You’re in my house now, Prince.” Tony shifts to stand, and although Loki still has to lower his head to meet the other’s gaze he must admit that the chef strikes an imposing figure with his furrowed brows and narrowed brown eyes. It almost surprises him when Tony continues by stepping up into his space, prodding a finger at his chest as he says, “I don’t have to answer to you. If anyone, I answer to Steve. Don’t think that just because your daddy got you a little job down here doesn’t mean that we’re going to bend to your every want. We have standards. High ones at that.”

Loki opens his mouth to retort, but it quickly shuts again when Tony presses harder against his sternum. 

Eventually, their staredown is interrupted by the arrival of breakfast.

Loki breaks eye contact first. He straightens to his full height, carefully smoothing out his apron where it bunched up over his thighs before he motions for Barton to set the serving tray on the small wooden table nestled in the corner of the garden where a decorative stone patio extends from the kitchen’s exterior wall. When he faces Tony again, the chef dips his head, turning to leave. He carries whatever vegetables he came out to collect to begin with under his arm. Loki’s eyes track his departure; his lips purse. 

It is only when Tony steps over the threshold of the kitchen that he huffs and whirls on his heel. He finds Barton standing idly by, hands clasped behind his back, expression politely disinterested even though the sharp, knowing glint in his eye betrays him. 

Loki ignores him, fighting the lingering irritation.

As soon as he is close enough, Barton pulls out the iron garden chair. He moves in tandem as Loki sits back to tuck both him and the chair securely under the lip of the table. Then, once he’s situated, Barton steps around his chair to lift the ornate silver cloche covering the tray to reveal a delicate spread.

Eggs, neatly folded and fluffy, rest at the center. Sliced tomatoes, crumbled goat cheese, and dried herbs—basil and rosemary, his nose tells him—dust the top. To the omelette’s left are various meats, thinly sliced, and a hearty hunk of nutty bread with a fair portion of butter spread over its face. To the right, a healthy helping of leafy greens dressed with fragrant oil and vinegar. And, to complete the meal, a steaming cup of tea and a flute glass of freshly squeezed juice. 

All in all, Loki is impressed.

Barton must be able to tell because he grins and says, “Please enjoy your meal, Prince Loki.” He bows before he, too, disappears through the wooden door leading back into the kitchen, leaving Loki to eat in peace. In blissful silence.

Loki picks up his fork to cut off the corner of the omelette. Steam curls in the air as the delicate curd and more melted cheese is revealed, making his mouth water. As he eats, each bite melting over his tongue, he wonders why no one informed him that the kitchen staff could be so... _ bothersome _ .

**Author's Note:**

> With this posted, I can now focus on finishing a chapter for tiny dragon Tony and Nordic Brew! I should be updating all three in a sporadic rotation (I shall, here and now, thank you in advance for your patience xD)
> 
> A fun fact from this chapter: The Great Hall mentioned here is actually based on Stirling Castle’s Great Hall. I absolutely love that castle! And yes, they did actually fit an entire ship within its walls laden with various fruits, veggies, and meats. It is also interesting to note that the ceiling of Stirling Castle’s Great Hall was constructed by shipbuilders! Discover more about it here https://www.stirlingcastle.scot/discover/highlights/the-great-hall/
> 
> Also, this fic is based off of a prompt I jumped upon in the frostiron discord server in which Loki is given control over the royal kitchens (thanks for getting me started, Sal!)


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